#thinking about some things

[numberfiveman]

If redemption is only for people who haven't done anything "that bad" then what's the point of redemption at all

[neurotypical-sonic]

do you think tangle ever got any shit when she was younger for have a tail that could do That

[leanfruit]

The language surrounding eds and recovering from them almost never takes into account actually fat people. When you go from a little overweight/average to thin/underweight, there's this notion of how irrational eds are because this person didn't really need to lose weight. They're just sick. But having your bmi be obese in a world that doesn't just think you'd look better a little skinnier, but is often actively disgusted by your body makes having an ed seem absolutely rational.

It's so much harder to take in recovery mantras like, "It's okay to gain weight!" or "You deserve to eat!" when you're fat and you've been taught that you deserve neither. And this is only referring to eds that cause you to restrict, suffering from binges adds a whole other layer of shame because then OF COURSE you're fat and disgusting. Restricting seems healthy in comparison and a shockingly low amount of people are going to tell you otherwise when you're literally obese.

[4x01]

100% convinced misha doesn’t know what canon means

[kilisworld]

I find it fascinating how many people can dislike/talk shit on you that don’t even known the bare minimum about you. .... or the fact you aren’t even aware it’s happening. 

I guess it really doesn’t matter how old you get- you really CAN’T escape drama can you?

[magic-can]

Okay but if you say something upsetting just to make someone cry what the actual hell is wrong with you.

[im-bugging-out]

why is it people who say "why are you acting like I'm gonna hit you?!?!?" when shouting at you never stop and say "why am I being registered as a threat by your body right now? how can I be less threatening while we discuss this?"

[koukaaa-descent]

I remember you.

I remember you, too.

(referring to a blurry haze that is your face, the taste of the cold air in the morning at your side, the crunch of the dead leaves. I imagined that your hands were cold but I never tried to ask, so I never knew. I imagined that this moment was going to last forever, but I am here now, remembering it. the visceral peace of the asphalt beneath my feet, the rush of air as you breathe, just a moment away. the story is not so long at all; please, linger in the doorway of connection. I say that there is eternity to spend and I find that I have eventually spent my eternity with you, and all I am left with is the barebones, the dust collected in the corners of old and untouched memories, the frayed photographs that I had never touched. I see you, I find you, in everything that is not you. This isn’t a love story.)

I remember you, man. We used to chat in line for coffee, right? Real fleeting, that. I almost missed it when i’d moved away. Did you miss me?

(You say this teasingly, a joke. I did. I did miss you. I’d stayed and looked around streets when i’d walked to the shop as if you’d show up on the curb. I wondered and wondered like a sad lost dog.)

I did, I say, like it’s casual conversation and I’m not wondering if you remembered the little eternities we’d made, waiting in line together. I always wondered how you always somehow found your way in front of or behind me. Close. Even on busy days, I’d be able to huff about the weather and hear you laugh about it, just a moment away. I’d fallen in love with those brief, five-minute conversations.

You laugh and shake my hand and ask if I’m still getting coffee from the same place. If you’ll see me, as always, waiting in line. I say that I do and it is a lie. I stopped going there years ago, after you’d left. I never really liked the coffee all that much. It didn’t feel worth it, to go out without the simple joy of seeing you.

You say that you want to drop by that shop again tomorrow. For nostalgia’s sake. I find myself waiting in line at a coffee shop I haven’t seen in years. The barista smiles at me, whole expression crinkling up at an old familiar face. They ask if I want the same order. I say I do.

You walk in long after I am seated at a table. Maybe you glance around a little, shift in line. But you never seem to see me, sat at the table and nursing the coffee. Sometimes I think that we don’t exist outside of these meetings.

You get your coffee. You walk back outside, unhindered. I stare at you until I cannot see you through the large glass windows. My order, notably, tastes far less savory than I have ever recalled it being. Less enjoyable. I hardly recall why I had ever liked it in the first place.

This isn’t a love story. It never was.